The Edge Of A Sharp Sword Is Dulled
by Zagzagael
Summary: Valentine's Day Ficlet. House/Thirteen "The Edge of a Sharp Sword is Dulled With A Beautiful Aspect And Severity Itself Is Overcome"


It was late, House felt the exhaustion of the day, this holiday, the week, the month, the past five years of his life settle on him, the weight of it heavy across his shoulders. He twirled his chair a half revolution around to reach for the vicodin bottle on his desk, and saw the light on in the conference room. He leaned forward, someone was sitting at the table, head bent, shoulders bent, long forearms out in front of her, fingers drumming on the melamine surface. He massaged both of his temples, then stood, palmed the prescription bottle and stepped into the adjoining room.

"Walk with me, Thirteen."

She smirked and pushed back from the table, standing, reaching for the lab coat draped on the chair beside her. "You don't need that. And what's so amusing?"

She raised an eyebrow in question.

He rolled his eyes, leaning heavier on the cane. "You're a mystery, doesn't mean you're not readable. Something I just said amused you. What was it?"

She looked at him. "You said, 'walk with me' and my internal comic was disappointed that you didn't say, 'walk this way.'"

"Oh, please. Right. You cannot convince me that you've got good shtick going to waste waiting for feed lines."

She laughed out loud and the corner of one of his crooked lips lifted slightly, his eyes softened. He held the door open for her and they moved out into the corridor. They walked in a companionable silence, her arms swinging free and House could feel the air she displaced moving across his hand and wrist. He gestured to the elevator, punched the button and glanced over at her as they waited for the car to arrive. She was looking at him. He marveled, as he always did when she was within sight, at the exquisite and flawless beauty of her face, her neck, the clavicle bow, the small, well-set ears, shining hair, slender build. He looked up as the elevator doors slid open. She walked past him and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

He pressed a lit number, then turned to her. "I saw a kid at a bus station this morning wearing this t-shirt and it said," he held her gaze, "it said "Time Heals All Non-Fatal Wounds." You ever hear that sentiment?"

She shook her head.

"No?"

She shook her head again. "No, I haven't," she answered him quietly. He nodded and suddenly she laughed softly, "Wait. Was that a missed opportunity for my shtick?"

He smiled at her. "No. I really did see a kid, funny haircut and all, wearing that shirt." The doors opened and they stepped out into the Cardiac Ward. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. All day."

Thirteen considered him.

The ICU was a dark, quiet hum contrasting starkly with the electric buzz of the brightly-lit elevator car. House began limping slowly, along the edge of the circular room, around the nurse's station set in the middle, two nurses on duty, commiserating, looked up briefly to nod at the two physicians, then returned to their conversation. One sipped at a can of soda.

House walked on, peering into each glass-walled room for a moment, before moving slowly onto the next one, then the next, and the one after. Thirteen followed, matching his long strides. They nearly completed the circuit, and then stopped at the last room. For a long, silent time, he looked in at the patient, his eyes flicking from the monitors, to the bed, to the grey television screen, back to the patient.

He spoke, "The stylized heart is the universal symbol for love. But the organ itself isn't really pretty enough to be depicted realistically. Yet, the word "heart" defines the emotion of love. Aristotle taught that it contained all human passion." He paused, still looking in at the shape of the healing paitient beneath the thin hospital linens. In his mind's eye he saw the rib spreader, the striated muscle of the damaged organ. His voice no longer instructed, it was edged with questions. "That muscle centers us, doesn't it? Circulates the blood, heats and cools, carries the disease and the cure. Bleeds through the wound. Red is the colour of Valentine's Day. We all bleed red. And if the wound is fatal, that muscle is not going to stop pounding until it beats itself dry." He took a deep breath, then another. He sighed.

"House?" Thirteen whispered.

"Interestingly enough, the Buddhists, independently of the Westernized metaphor, symbolized the heart, not with love, but with enlightenment."

She reached out for his arm, and he shook his head. She pulled back slightly, but returned her hand to his sleeve, her slender fingers gripping his forearm. He looked down, and then looked up at her, his eyes hooded, his gaze distant.

She said softly, "Hey, Dr. House. Let me buy you a St. Valentine's Day single-malt."

He focused on her face, her lips, her eyes.

She smiled.

"_Ergo __hebetantur__enses__pulchritudin_e," he announced. "And single malts are pricey, Dr. Thirteen. And I'm thirsty." He smiled slightly. "But if you _are_ buying?"

"I'm buying. And my Latin is rusty."

He smirked. "Happy Valentine's Day, Thirteen. Let's go." He brushed against her lightly, then past her. "Walk this way."


End file.
